At Sea
by Sandrine Shaw

Queen Mary, Narcisse addresses her, and my lady, but they sound like insults from his tongue, politeness and deference twisted into mockery.

It's in the way his lips twitch into a lopsided farce of a smile. In the sarcastic drawl of his voice. In the glint of his eyes as he measures her like she's one of Greer's girls.

She pulls her cloak tighter around herself, glaring at him across the deck. The sun catches on the silver handle of his sword, a bright flash that almost hurts her eyes, and she turns her back to watch the sea that lies ahead, still and silent under blue August skies. In less than a week's time, she'll be setting foot on Scottish soil again, the foreign home she barely remembers. As much as she resents Narcisse's presence and his attitude, he and Bash are all that remains of those four years she spent at the French court, creating a strange sort of tie, a familiarity she's oddly reluctant to shrug off.

"How about a game of chess?" he asks, leaning into the doorway of her quarters like he owns the ship and she's the one hitching a ride rather than the other way around.

It's past nightfall and her lady-in-waiting has already gone to her own cabin after attending to Mary. It's improper for Narcisse to be here, as improper as his suggestion.

"Surely it would be more appropriate if you asked Bash."

He snorts, and the derogatory note in his voice makes it clear what he thinks of the suggestion. "While I am sure your dear brother-in-law makes a decent King's Deputy, it's easy to tell that he's lacking the wits and the patience to be a good chess player. I prefer my opponents to pose a little more of a challenge. It makes the victory so much sweeter."

The gall of that man. The implication that he's taking victory for granted grates on her nerves. Of course, that's the whole point; it's a tactical move to appeal to her competitiveness, to ensure she's not going to deny him a game. Of course, she knows that.

It doesn't stop her from tilting her head and pointing to the chess set on the small corner table.

"Very well, Lord Chancellor. Set up the board, then."

The look of satisfaction on his face makes her want to take her words back, but she holds her tongue. Changing her mind now would be seen as a weakness, worse than allowing herself to be manipulated into agreeing in the first place.

Her eyes follow him as he walks into her cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. The room is large enough, but she can't quite shake the sense of claustrophobia. It's not a new experience. Narcisse does that. Even the large halls and spacious chambers in Paris seemed to shrink into themselves in his presence. It's a skill he shares with Catherine, and Mary's mother as well once upon a time, whereas Mary herself never quite learned to master it. She isn't sure if she wants to: she always preferred to be the kind of ruler who was loved rather than feared.

"I presume you prefer White?"

It's amazing how much condescension Narcisse puts into his assumption. Truth is, Mary doesn't really care much for the colors' potential symbolism, nor is she particularly keen to be the one to open the game.

She raises an eyebrow. "And you? Black like your soul?"

His lips twitch, and she knows she's won the opening gambit without moving a single figure yet.

Mary beats Narcisse in 23 moves. It's rather fitting, she thinks, that it's her Queen who lures him into a checkmate at the end.

His fingers brush against her as he reaches across the board and offers the Black King to her in a effusive gesture of defeat, and the touch lingers for a moment too long. "Well played, Queen Mary. May I offer you my services as a prize for your victory?"

"Much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'd rather decline." Mary offers a smile infused in fake sweetness. "I've seen too many times what your vows of loyalty are worth." It's a pity, really, because someone with Narcisse's experience in politics and his ruthlessness in getting what he wants would be an invaluable asset in Scotland. But it's not worth the risk of finding herself stabbed in the back, metaphorically or literally.

Instead of being offended, Narcisse throws his head back and laughs, deep and genuine and rich like the full-bodied French wine Mary's had too much of during the game. "While that's probably a wise choice, those really weren't the kind of services I was offering."

He lets his gaze trail lazily over her, from head to toe and back, lingering on her cleavage and her lips, on where her hands are resting in her lap, still holding his King in her fingers. It takes her a moment too long to understand his meaning, and when she finally does, the sheer audacity of the offer renders her speechless and spluttering.

"You're mad."

Leaning back in his chair, he watches her with eyes heated by wine and unconcealed desire, the black of his pupils almost swallowing the blue completely. "Come on, Mary, don't tell me you've never thought about it. I'm sure Lady Kenna shared all the details of that delightfully indiscreet journal with you. Aren't you just a little curious? I suspect you've hardly been blessed with skilled lovers in the past. Francis was an inexperienced boy and Blackburn's been locked up in the Tower for years. And I'd assume whatever joy your dalliance with Lord Condé gave you was marred by the experience that drove you into his arms."

She's on her feet at once. The sound of her flat hand connecting with his cheek is loud in the cabin, louder than the sea raging outside. "Don't you dare –"

He catches her wrist before she can hit him again. "Relax. I wasn't belittling what you went through, I was merely making a point. You're welcome to continue slapping me, if you like. Though I hear that isn't quite your sort of thing?"

Does he know all her secrets? She flushes and pulls her arm from his grip. "It's not. Just ask Don Carlos."

"Touché," he drawls, but he doesn't look like a man conceding any sort of defeat, standing far too close so she can't evade the warmth radiating from his body, nor the scent of wine and firewood and the sea clinging to him.

His dubious... offer still stands, that much is obvious, and he won't back down until Mary rejects it, firm and clear. There are not a lot of things she trusts Narcisse with, but she trusts him to be the kind of man who won't push a woman if she refuses him. Perhaps that's part of why she's not throwing him out of her quarters just yet, why she entertains the idea of saying yes. Out there, in the ruthless cut-throat game of court politics, he won't think twice of sacrificing her at the altar of his thirst for power. But here in her bedroom, he doesn't pose a threat to her, and she can't deny the rush at the thought of someone like him bending to her will.

He reaches out and lets the back of his hand brush over the lacings of her bodice. "I can't help but notice you haven't said no yet."

It's not just the wine and the stormy sea making her light-headed. She can't believe she's doing this, but her voice is firm and full of confidence when she speaks. "Well, I did defeat you rather spectacularly. It's only fair that I collect my winnings."

The sight of Narcisse kneeling in front of her gives her more of a power rush than she could possibly have imagined.

And his mouth – God, his mouth! That silver tongue of his allowed him to talk himself out of the most dire predicaments and is quite possibly the only reason he hasn't met his executioner yet. Who knew that it would be just as talented when he isn't speaking?

Mary tangles her hands in his hair, her knees buckling beneath her, a string of words unbecoming of a lady of her station caught in her throat. Please is the least damning of them – or maybe the most, but it's the only one she allows to cross her lips.

Narcisse pulls back and smiles up at her with shiny wet lips, making a show of licking them clean while his fingers resume what his mouth has started, every bit as nimble and skillful.

"I didn't expect you to beg quite so readily," he says.

Her fingers tighten in retaliation, pulling a little harder at the short brown strands of his hair than is necessary.

"I didn't expect you to look quite so comfortable on your knees." The breathy tone of her voice takes some of the edge away, making it impossible to sound as forbidding and haughty as she would like it to, but it's hard to stay focused when every flick of his thumb is driving her insane, calluses delightfully rough against her most sensitive skin, two of his fingers relentlessly driving into her in a steady, measured rhythm.

He wrings another orgasm out of her, her second of the night already, and she knows he isn't done because he's still fully dressed. Even from the odd angle she can see the tightness of his breeches around his groin, and while she appreciates the attention he's given her, the seemingly selfless pleasure he's doled out quite readily, there's a part of her who can't wait for him to strip down and push inside of her, can't wait to watch him lose that infuriating smug smile, lose control, lose himself.

He was right. Making love to Francis was good because it was fueled by the depth of their feelings for each other. Bash was an escapist, youthful folly, trying to shrink her responsibilities and tumbling head-first into an adventure that she knew to be on borrowed time. With Condé, it was all about reclaiming something she lost. Gideon was her attempt at forging an honest connection to a like-minded soul in the midst of shifting political allegiances.

This is different.

It's raw, sheer pleasure, undiluted by love or desperation or emotional ties. After their journey is over, they will likely never see each other again, and Mary is more than alright with that, but that makes it all so much easier to enjoy the moment. There's an undercurrent of power play, because everything is power play with Narcisse. But here in her bedchamber, Mary minds it less than she did when he challenged her at court, even revels in it a little as she pushes him down on the narrow mattress, watching him sprawl out on golden satin covers she brought along from Paris and climbing on top of him.

She arches her back and sinks down on him, relishing the way his eyes go dark and heavy, the way his hands tighten against her hips enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, the way he can't quite hold back those rumbling, involuntary noises.

The ship rocks and she tumbles forward, against his chest, surprise and the change of angle making them both gasp, and when he kisses her, she thinks she can taste the storm raging outside.

Afterwards, in the faint candlelight, she traces the scars on his torso, fascinated by how varied and different they are, how manifold. Faded white sword marks on his arm. The rough skin of an old burn against his thigh. The long, parallel fresher cuts across his stomach and his right side he got in the fighting pit to win the gold France needed to pay their soldiers.

All scars tell stories, but she doesn't really care to hear them, doesn't want to know the gruesome tales of what happened to the people who left them. Narcisse doesn't strike her as the kind of man who'd let someone mark him without paying it back a hundredfold. He lives and breathes vengeance.

He lives and breathes vengeance, and Mary had his son killed.

The thought makes her stiffen, an unpleasant churn in the pit of her stomach, the sudden realization how foolish, how reckless it was to let Narcisse so close to her.

"Did you let me win?"

Turning her head towards him, she searches his face for traces of a lie that would give him away. She isn't quite prepared for the sliver of a wicked smirk he throws her way.

"Who says you won?" he muses lazily, and the blood freezes in her veins. When she moves to pull away, he sighs and reaches for her again, like approaching a frightened horse. "But no, I didn't forfeit the game to seduce you, if that's what you care about. I'm not in the habit of losing, much less on purpose, and I assure you, the outcome of the night would have been the same if you'd been the one forced into a checkmate."

The arrogance of his words almost takes her mind off her worries, until his tone takes a sly edge. "Of course, what you really want to know is whether I've had ulterior motives for taking you to bed tonight. The answer is no. My desires tonight have been carnal rather than sinister."

It seems too simple for a man with his reputation and his ambition; too ignorant of their past. "Why now? I never got the impression that you were interested, before."

She wishes she'd had the mind to ask him this before allowing him to have her. Perhaps it had been the wine that clouded her judgement, or perhaps the prospect of leaving everything she's known behind to sail into an uncertain future and a most likely violent struggle for her crown has her more shaken than she thought. Now she's thinking clearly, she regrets giving in quite so easily, or perhaps giving in at all, no matter how satisfying the experience was.

"I wasn't. But I won't deny that watching you lead that army of yours back to Paris with a sword in your hand was quite the thrilling sight." He offers a small intimate smile, as if he's sharing a private joke.

"I didn't think you were the sort to be impressed by a display of power," Mary scoffs, but even as she says it, she realizes that it is in fact very much in character. All Narcisse cares about is power. It only makes sense that he's fascinated by her show of force. "No, never mind that. Of course you're the kind of man who gets a kick out of bedding a queen."

"It's hardly the first time I've taken a queen to bed, and it's probably not going to be the last."

Mary blinks as understanding dawns. "Is that your plan to free Lola? Seduce Elizabeth? You can't possibly think that this is a good idea!"

Narcisse's smile is sharp as a blade. "Let me worry about your not-so-virginal cousin, Mary. Now, why don't you grant me a rematch?"

It's a tempting thought, but tiredness is wrapping itself around her like a heavy blanket and she's not prepared to engage him – neither on the chess board, nor between the sheets – without her mind as sharp and awake as it can be.

"Maybe tomorrow. I think we've played quite enough games for one night."

Her rest that night is the least fitful she's had since she left Paris.

When she wakes up in the morning, the sea is calm and still once again, glittering in the sun like a tapestry of emerald green and sapphire blue.

On deck, the Captain is engrossed in conversation with Narcisse and Bash, all their heads turning towards her when she joins them.

"Queen Mary," Narcisse says, lip curling. "Captain Tanner informs us that we should reach the port of Leith in three days."

Three more days until she has to fight for her country. Two more nights on the ship.

"Very well. Why don't you come see me later so we can finish our discussion about your plans for England, Lord Narcisse?"

She has very little interest in actually talking about how Narcisse intents to secure Lola's release and win back the affections of his wife, but for the sake of the Captain and Bash, it will sound like a valid reason to spend time with Narcisse.

He inclines his head. "As you wish."

As night falls, the storm rears up again, thunder and lightning filling the sky, and the ship pulled back and forth by the force of the swell.

Water rushes through the window, drenching her from head to toe, and that's how Narcisse finds her, dizzy from the sway of the ship and wet to the skin.

The figures of the chess set lie sprawled all across the floor, tumbled down from the small table where Mary had set up the board.

"I think we should probably forego our chess game tonight. And you should get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death." The lack of concern in Narcisse's voice belies his words, as does the leer he bestows upon her.

She rolls her eyes at the crudeness of the suggestion. "You might want to up your game of seduction before you go see Elizabeth about Lola."

"I wasn't aware you required more seduction, after last night. But as always, your wish shall be my command, my lady," he lies smoothly as he sinks to his knees again.

He doesn't offer her a hand as she disembarks the ship, standing by with that knowing, ever-present smirk of his as he watches Bash jump to her aid. It's only when Bash has gone off to talk to Mary's generals that Narcisse turns towards her.

"Mary." The familiarity should have her bristling, but her given name somehow sounds less derogatory than when he addresses her with her title, so she lets it slip. "I suppose this is goodbye."

She inclines her head. "I'd wish you luck winning Lola back, but frankly, I still think she deserves better. I do, however, hope you succeed in freeing her from Elizabeth's clutches." She can't quite resist adding, "By whatever means necessary."

The expression on his face tells her that he has a plan that goes beyond the vague notion of making the Queen of England fall hopelessly in love, or perhaps lust, with him. As with most of his plans, he'll probably overreach and get into trouble, but miraculously come out on top anyway. Mary's almost sad not to be around to watch the inevitable fall-out, certain that it will make for an entertaining spectacle.

"Good luck winning your country back. As my wife seems rather fond of you, try not to die in the process," he drawls, like he himself couldn't care less if she lived or died. For all she knows, he doesn't.

He's already half-turned to go when he faces her again. "And Mary? I think it's best if we don't tell her about our games of chess. For both our sakes."

"You think?" As if she needed that piece of advice. "Don't worry, I have no intention of ruining my friendship with Lola over you."

They share a small private smile, a little amused and a little brittle and almost genuine. There's no trace of regret in it. She wouldn't take any of it back, not the past three nights, nor her choices at the French court that had them clash so badly.

"Goodbye, Stéphane. It's been interesting."

Mary doesn't watch him leave as he takes his horse and speeds off, her mind already focusing on the battle that lies ahead for her, the bittersweet nature of homecoming under those unpredictable circumstances. She takes a deep breath that tastes of sea air and freedom and turns to where her soldiers are waiting for her.

End.